


Death is not fair

by Tehri



Series: Memories of Home [11]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Bilbo doesn't deal well with loss, Bilbo has lost 10 people over 40 years, Gen, Grief/Mourning, I counted, Loneliness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-23
Updated: 2015-02-23
Packaged: 2018-03-14 16:32:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3417707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tehri/pseuds/Tehri
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Upon his return to the Shire, Bilbo at first tries to block out thoughts of everything that happened on his journey, focusing only on retrieving his sold off belongings. A visit from one of his aunts soon changes that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Death is not fair

If anyone in Hobbiton thought that Bilbo was somewhat subdued when he returned home, they certainly made no mention of it to him. If anything, they probably thought it terribly rude of him to allow them to assume that he had died, only to return and reclaim the items already sold in the auction. It had taken him nearly a month only to reclaim his father’s old writing desk, and at least three to figure out where his grandfather Mungo’s old chair had disappeared to. It was a tedious and expensive business that kept him busy for some time.

When he noticed that the portraits of his parents were gone, he was certain that the anger that sparked in him could have rivalled Smaug’s own when the old worm had realised that one of the golden cups were missing from his hoard. He immediately set about contacting his relatives, not to mention several of his neighbours, to see if anyone knew where the portraits were, and it was still only two months after his return that he finally received an answer.

 

Since his return, people in Hobbiton had avoided Bilbo, unless he was actively hounding them for the return of various items that certainly did not belong to them. This had suited Bilbo quite well – no visitors hanging on the doorbell or trying to get invited for tea, plenty of time to sort out his business.

So when he opened his door one sunny morning in late August and found himself staring at the aged face of his aunt Linda, standing there with a linen-wrapped parcel in her arms, he could barely find any words to say.

“Quite a fuss you’ve made, Bilbo,” Linda said as she gave him a small reserved smile. “Might I come in for a moment? I’ve something with me that I believe you’ve been looking for.”

“I was not expecting company,” Bilbo murmured, giving his aunt a smile in return as he stepped aside to let her into the smial. “I’m afraid I don’t have much at home.”

Linda snorted and raised an eyebrow at him as she stepped inside. She knew very well what this meant, if one looked past the ever present polite exterior: _I was not expecting company and I certainly do not want it at the moment either_. The Bagginses had practically their own language when it came to being polite.

“I did not come to exchange pleasantries, nephew,” she said sharply, and the tone of her voice made Bilbo close his mouth with a snap and straighten his back a little. “I came to speak plainly with you, if you do not mind, and I do not ask for anything out of your pantry.”

Bilbo eyed her warily before closing the door. A Baggins would rarely say that they wished to speak plainly with someone; he could count on only one hand the occasions in his life when that had happened before, and none of them had been very happy occasions. But he kept the smile on his face as he followed Linda into the kitchen. She placed the parcel on the table and sat down on a chair, one of few that he had been able to reclaim so far.

“To be perfectly frank with you, this entire business has become rather ugly,” she said, waving for her nephew to sit down. “First there were all the rumours of where you had gone off to, and then came the news to me and poor Belba and Bingo that Longo had decided to have you declared dead. That caused quite a ruckus, I can tell you.”

Bilbo winced and nodded; his uncle Longo was not overly fond of him, and was more than happy to shove others out of the way if it furthered the interests of himself or his son Otho.

“I can’t imagine aunt Belba and uncle Bingo were happy about that,” he said politely, smiling softly when Linda snorted. “Or you, aunt Linda.”

“Be glad that you did not return in the midst of that,” she retorted, crossing her arms over her chest. “I don’t suppose you’ve seen him yet?”

“No, and I’m hoping to be spared that.” Bilbo groaned and shook his head. “Even if he is family, I’ve had quite enough of trouble from Otho and Lobelia already.”

Linda eyed him carefully for a moment before nodding and pushing the parcel over to him.

“You should open this,” she said. “I just knew that if either Longo or Otho got their hands on them, they’d be tossed out or burned, so I might have pilfered the spare key and fetched them.”

Bilbo hesitated briefly, giving his aunt a quick wary glance; she nodded at him, and he finally picked up the parcel and opened it, eyes widening in surprise when he unwrapped the missing portraits of his parents.

“I’ve kept them quite safe,” Linda said softly. “I know how dear they are to you, Bilbo.”

For a moment, he simply sat there and trailed his fingers over the portraits with a sad smile on his face. Then he looked up and nodded.

“I’m glad to see that they weren’t sold,” he replied. “Or destroyed, for that matter. But certainly this is not all you’ve come for?”

There was an edge to Linda’s smile now, and she shook her head slowly as he carefully placed the portraits back on the table.

“You, my dear nephew, have been missing for over a year and presumed dead for well over six months,” she said slowly. “And suddenly, as if nothing ever happened, you come waltzing back into the Shire, toss everybody out of Bag End and set about reclaiming your property with the air of someone who has never been gone.” She raised an eyebrow at him as he winced again. “You come back in strange attire, bringing with you all manners of strange items, and you lock yourself in your home and hardly even come out to go to the market. If you think that you can continue like this without having your relatives notice that something is the matter, then I am inclined to inform you that whatever you’ve been up to has turned you into a complete fool.”

“I’ve been home for two months, and I’ve been exceedingly busy,” Bilbo snapped. “How exactly do you presume to tell that something is wrong when hardly any time has passed?”

“Do not take that tone with me, lad,” Linda warned. “Something _is_ wrong, and if you wish to deny it, then do so. But I have not seen you behave this way since your parents passed.” She sighed deeply, and her mien softened. “Please, keep in mind that we _are_ your family. Strange or not, you are mine and Belba’s and Bingo’s nephew, and we will try to help you if you but ask. No matter what happened, we are family.”

 

Aunt Linda had left soon after, bearing with her the promise that Bilbo would at the very least write to her and his other relatives and that he would ask for help if he needed to. It had taken the better part of an hour to convince him to give that promise, and as Bilbo quietly put the portraits back in their rightful place above the fireplace, he couldn’t help but smile.

It wasn’t a happy smile, not by any means. While he had not told his aunt of what had happened on his journey, her guesses had hit remarkably close.

“And still,” he said to the portrait of his father as he made sure that it hung straight, “she would have to know the whole story to actually guess everything.”

The portrait smiled serenely back at him as it always had. Already the smial seemed a little more like home, now when his parents were back.

 

On his birthday, Bilbo sat in his recently reacquired armchair by the fireplace, alternating between staring into the flames and glancing up at the portraits on the wall. Sometimes he spoke his thoughts out loud to the room, gazing at the portraits as he did so – as though he hoped that they would answer him, offer some insight or advice. He had done this often before, after they had died. He felt less inclined than ever before to celebrate his birthday. Or any birthday, for that matter.

“We arrived in Laketown on my birthday last year,” he said. “I wasn’t even certain of the date until two days after, and I was bundled up in bed at the time.” He sighed softly and shook his head. “Considering the fuss those ridiculous dwarves made, one would’ve thought that I was on my deathbed.”

But he smiled at the memory, thinking of how they had fussed over him, treated him like a hero and done whatever they could for him.

“It feels strange to be home again,” he murmured, closing his eyes with a sigh. “Not that I’m not glad to be back, I truly am, but… There is something missing. Something just doesn’t feel right anymore.” He sat quiet for a while, and finally sighed deeply once more and opened his eyes, fixing his gaze on the portraits. “You’ll probably think me a fool, both of you. I don’t think I can go back to living the way I used to. It wouldn’t be… It’s just not…”

He broke off, frowning as he searched for words. How could he explain this? He wanted to have it said and done, wanted to explain what had happened, whom he had met and befriended, what he had lost…

“That’s the problem, isn’t it?” he said bitterly. “Losing things. My life is just stuffed with having lost something, mostly _people_. My grandparents, all four of them, within the span of twenty years. Sweet Yavanna, I wasn’t even of age. And then you, da. Then uncle Isengrim, and then uncle Hildibrand and you, mum. And then uncle Isumbras. And wouldn’t you know it, I come home and receive the news that uncle Hildigrim died when I was away.” He laughed, and it sounded too high and hysterical to his own ears. “Perhaps I’m cursed. Wouldn’t that be a laugh? All my life, I stand by and watch others fade away and die, and I can’t stop it.”

He took a deep breath and shook his head, trying to clear his mind from the images of the faces of those he had lost throughout the years. That was the problem with big families, wasn’t it? It was an endless churning stream of deaths, occasionally stilled by the birth of another little one.

“I made new friends when I was away,” he said to the portraits. “Thirteen admirably brave dwarves. Strong, stubborn, sometimes harsh. But all of them so very kind. I thought they hated me at first, but some warmed quickly enough. I’ll never have such friends again in my life. Their friendship is more than I deserve.”

Tears started to cloud his vision, and quite soon he was sobbing and hiccupping even as he tried to continue to speak.

“I tried so hard to keep them safe, da,” he sobbed. “I tried, I tried again and again, tried so hard, and I couldn’t, I couldn’t help them. I saved them from the spiders, mum, I dragged them out of Thranduil’s dungeons all on my own, I worked so very hard to save them. But all that happened was that they walked straight to a bloody dragon’s lair, and I _knew_ that would happen, I knew it, but I couldn’t help them.”

Bilbo shivered as he tried to wipe the tears away, images of Fili’s and Kili’s still faces coming unwanted to his mind, images of Thorin on his deathbed, echoes of the dwarf-king’s quiet words as he asked for forgiveness.

“For the first time since you both died, I felt like I was at home.” Bilbo had to force out the words as he continued, ignoring how his throat ached. “For the first time in so long, I felt like I was wanted, like I mattered, and not only for wealth or anything like that. And I still didn’t get to keep the ones who truly gave me that feeling, I couldn’t save them. I tried, I promise that I tried, but…” He took a deep breath, exhaling shakily. “If I had been louder, if I had protested against going back to the mountain when the dragon was dead… Or if I hadn’t hinted to that we came via Laketown when I spoke to the dragon... Maybe, just maybe, they’d still be alive. Maybe Fili and Kili would have tried to convince me to stay. Maybe Thorin would have been crowned by now, and maybe he would have forgiven me…”

He gave his parents a watery smile.

“Maybe they would still be alive,” he said weakly. “But life would not ever be so kind to me, would it? It’s not fair that I should be allowed to keep those I love for once, is it?”

**Author's Note:**

> Consider this. Bilbo was born in 1290, by Shire Reckoning. Here follows a list of relatives of his that have died by the time he returns from his journey.
> 
> Mungo Baggins, his paternal grandfather - 1300  
> Adamanta Took née Chubb, his maternal grandmother - no actual date of death given, my headcanon is that she died during the Fell Winter in 1312  
> Laura Baggins née Grubb, his paternal grandmother - 1316  
> Gerontius "the Old" Took, his maternal grandfather - 1320  
> Bungo Baggins, his father - 1326  
> Isengrim Took, his maternal uncle and eldest son of Gerontius Took - 1330  
> Hildibrand Took, his maternal uncle and 8th son of Gerontius Took - 1334  
> Belladonna Baggins née Took, his mother - 1334  
> Isumbras Took, his maternal uncle and 3rd son of Gerontius Took - 1339  
> Hildigrim Took, his maternal uncle and 4th son of Gerontius Took - 1341
> 
> Consider that. Loss after loss after loss. It wouldn't be a wonder if he felt like he was being left behind.


End file.
